One Afternoon In Piccadilly
by Faithful Bozwell
Summary: This piece was inspired by lunch at the Criterion Bar in London and is my take of the events that led up to Watson's meeting with Stamford. A Watsonfic in progress...Holmes appears later. ;-   nonslash!


O.K. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle tells us that Watson met Stamford at the Criterion Bar. But why was Watson there? Well, this my take on how it happened. It is my first Watsonfic!

**Watson:** *cringes*

**Me:** *pats his hand* No worries, Doc. I'll go easy on you. *crosses her fingers behind her back* And if you hadn't insisted on putting this story into my head while I was dining at the Criterion, we wouldn't be here, now would we?

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_**THE ADVENTURE OF THE **__**YOUNG HUNGOVER RETIRED ARMY DOCTOR.**_

_**- OR -**_

_**ONE AFTERNOON IN PICCADILLY.**_

LONDON.

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1881.

"Oi! Watch where the bloody hell yer goin'!"

The bicyclist who hollered out curses as I stumbled across Piccadilly didn't phase me in the least. My head felt like a clock factory at noon; even the slight pressure from my bowler was like an anvil. I could barely see. The only cure was a bit of the hair of the dog. And The Criterion was the place to find it. At least 11 shillings and 6 pence daily was good for something. That's about all it was good for.

The glittering crust of golden tiles above my head did little to cheer me. Would that I had some of that kind of wealth. Then maybe I could escape this comfortable yet meaningless existence which I had been living for the past nine months. I removed my bowler, made my way to the long bar, and leaned my right arm on it. The cold weather was playing hell with my leg. Even with the cane, it was still painfully stiff. A strong hand on my bad shoulder snapped me to my senses.

" 'Appy New Yearah, Shonny!"I groaned inwardly. It was Jack, a regular whose purse would no doubt outlast his liver. Normally he was great entertainment - the kind of fellow who was more social when drunk. But today I was in no mood. He looked at me, though I wasn't sure which one of me he was looking at.

"Aw, whashomattah, Shonny?"

"Not now Jack."

He put his arm around me. "Aw, poor puppy. You want to take a tip from me - a raw egg in sherry, that'll set'chu right. Didn't teesh you that in medahcal shchool did they? Hey, you alright, Boy?" His breath was like a hot mince pie. I swallowed hard at that and smiled somewhat. "Fine, Jack."

"Or maybe it washn't jush the boozshe, eh? I shay, she mush've givhen you a right goin' ovah. She were too mussh for the old soljah, eh, Shonny?" He laughed and clapped me hard on the back. I turned and rested my head in my hands. "Bog off, Jack."

"Aw, come on, Watshun."

"I. Said. Go. Away." And mercifully he did so. I gently lowered my head to the bar, desperately trying to will away the image of whipped eggs. Then I felt a hand touch my wrist. From the direction of the fingers, I knew it was the bartender.

"Well, what do you know? It has a pulse. That's a good thing; no corpses allowed at the bar."

I chose not to dignify that with a response.

"For a moment there I thought old Jack was going to have the imminent pleasure of meeting the famed bull-pup. Come on, Watson, up you come. There's a good lad." I heard the all too familiar clink of a heavy beer glass set down very close to my head. My only reply was a muffled, monotone "Ow".

"Sorry, Mate. Bad one, huh?"

"You could say that, Bill," I said, my face still on the bar.

"You alright, John?"

I gulped down a big sip and rested my forehead back on the bar. "Yeah."

"That wasn't very convincing."

"Well I'm afraid it's the best I can do at the moment," I stood up slowly and took another sip.

"Has the muse hit you lately? Any writing? You've said that you like to do that sort of thing."

"No," I said, setting the glass down.

"Ever think of working for one of the papers? At least it would be a job."

"What, me? Ah, yes, I can see it now. Bull-Pup's Papers. Give ol' Pickwick a run for his money. Except I can't run. I can't do anything. Orders of Her Majesty's Royal Army. I must rest. And stagnate."

Bill put down the glass he'd been wiping and leaned in closer. "John, I know this chap who writes for the Strand Magazine. He might be able to help you. Nice fellow. I think I've got his card here somewhere." He began rummaging around near the till.

I took another swig. "Not interested."

"Oh come on. He writes historical things, the kind you like. Might be worth contacting. Yes, here it is, Mr. Doyle. Here you go, John."

I shoved the card into my pocket. "Fine, if it will get you off my bloody back, I'll think about it."

"Good." he said with a smile, and walked away to serve another customer.

Setting down the empty beer glass, I contemplated having another. Suddenly someone tapped my shoulder. It was swiftly accompanied by a voice I never expected to hear in a thousand years.

"Dr. Watson!"

I turned around, hangover forgotten, and smiled from ear to ear.

"Stamford!"

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So, how'd I do? And what happens next, you say?...I plan to submit another chapter each month - like they did in the old serial magazines. So, be patient, Dear Readers, and I shall try and make it worth your while. ;-) Oh yes, and there will be references from time to time in homage to the Granada Televsion Series. It just cannot be avoided.

Note: I originally submitted this piece on the 130th anniversary of the Battle of Maiwand - 27 July, 1880.

**Watson: **Why thank you, my dear.

**Me:** My pleasure, Doctor.

**Holmes:** Ahem, when do _I_ appear?

**Me:** *rolls eyes* Patience, my dear Holmes, patience.

**Holmes:** Hmph.

**Watson/Me:** *snicker*


End file.
